


You Strip Me Down

by truemexicanalpha



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truemexicanalpha/pseuds/truemexicanalpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Stiles is rummaging through one of the drawers, he spots the beginnings of a pretty familiar design peeking out from the bottom of the pile. He pulls it out, and as he thought, Derek apparently owns an LA Dodgers shirt. Which is incredibly unsuspecting. And also… small? Derek must’ve put it in the dryer one too many times, Stiles thinks. He’s not even picturing Derek wearing this petite shirt, the stretch of it over his biceps and the way it would undeniably ride up his abdomen, probably coming up right below his navel, happy trail exposed and out in the open for Derek - or Stiles, because after all, he is an ambition young man - to just scratch at any time he wants. Nope, not picturing that at all. </p><p>Instead, he contemplates putting it on, just to surprise Derek when he comes out from his shower, and ultimately concludes, <em>yes, Stiles Stilinski, man of rash decisions, that is a great fucking idea.</em> He pulls it on slowly, careful not to rip the seams, and it’s actually a pretty good fit for him, snug in all the right places but still long enough to reach the waistband of his boxers. Maybe he’ll just ask if he can have it since the likelihood of Derek reviving the crop top movement of 2014 is upsettingly slim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Strip Me Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haleshowling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleshowling/gifts).



> I have a lot of sad headcanons about Derek Hale. I share these headcanons with Carla, fellow Derek-stanning bae. I make many promises that I will write and draw her things that I never get around to doing because I'm the actual worst. I don't know why she still bothers being friends with me when I promised this to her months ago ("it's been 84 years," she frequently quoted), but I finally finished something at least? Maybe? Whatever, ily cutie.
> 
> Also, this is unbeta'd because I'm apparently not about that life, so any errors you may come across are my own because *Hannah Montana voice* _everybody makes mistakes, everybody has those days._

Derek lies pliant, loose-limbed and sated against the mattress, regaining his breath, enjoying Stiles's warm weight against his back, rise and fall of his body in tandem with Derek's respiration. They're tucked under the thick down-alternative comforter which Stiles bought nearly 3 years ago when he spent his first night at the loft during the winter and got a fine taste of the compromise made to have such a spacious place for the amount Derek pays on rent. He forced Derek into a 2 am trip to Walmart because "it’s gonna be better than that wolf pelt I made of your chest hair" (That line resulted in Stiles sleeping on the sofa by himself, but at least he was warm.)

He releases his tight grip on Stiles’s hand, leaving their fingers threaded together to rest at the pillow above his head. He relishes in Stiles’s touch, thumb rubbing gentle circles at his palm, lips pressing lazy, open-mouth kisses along his shoulder, fingers carding through his hair, scritching at his scalp in a way that makes Derek want to roll over and get his belly rubbed (“It’s not a dog thing, Stiles!”) until he’s blissed out. Stiles can always make him feel really, _really_ good.

His shoulders begin to shake as a silent, hearty laugh builds in his chest. "Did you really shout at the cat when you came?" He gets out, turning his head in the other direction to see Pussywagon staring, almost intently, at the both of them from the designated living room area of his loft. His laughter quickly dies down. "Fuck, that's so weird. Was he watching us?"

"Derek, how did you not notice him over there being all creepy with his creepy eyes?" Stiles replies, words slightly muffled by Derek's shoulder. He turns his face, the sweat cooling against his cheek as it becomes more exposed to the cold of the loft, and shoots a dirty look over to the cat, who appears undeniably mischievous. He gives Stiles a mean glare back before trotting off to god knows where, wheels of his chair squeaking audibly in the silent room. Why the fuck did he want to foster this cat, and why did Derek even agree to it? "I think he has a cat boner for you, dude."

"Yeah, and what about you? You're the only who came with his name on your tongue. Do you have a thing for handicap Persians? I mean I thought you liked me because I'm still pretty human for a werewolf, but I guess I'm gonna have to rethi-" Stiles doesn't allow Derek to finish that sentence, capturing his lips in a soft kiss instead. Derek draws his own free hand from where it's pinned under his body and slides it up to hold Stiles close, cupping it behind his ear so he can twindle the brown locks between his fingers. His eyes are open, he enjoys watching the way Stiles gives every kiss, _everything_ , his all. Loves seeing the concentration on his face as Stiles presses for more. He closes his own eyes to envelop himself in the sensation of the kiss.  He loves everything about kissing Stiles. The smack of lips as they change angles and pace, the exchange of breaths when they're too lazy for anything more than just being _there_ , the way Derek pulls back and Stiles always chases his lips until he's satisfied.

Derek just really loves Stiles.

Except when Stiles falls asleep mid-macking, which is what he just did. Derek parts his eyes to see Stiles, relaxed, his eyelids fluttering as he drifts off. Derek softens beneath him, carried away by his own thoughts, imagining having to deal with this for the rest of his life and thinking _yeah, I can absolutely do this._ He's lost in his own space until Stiles let's out a particularly loud snore that startles even himself awake.

Derek nudges at Stiles’s shoulder, pushing him off gently. “Get up. Let's hop in the shower before I'm stuck under you for the night.”

“God, do we have to shower? I just want to curl up and go to sleep," Stiles whines. He rubs his face against Derek’s back and stretches his legs, careful not to budge from his position on top of him. "It's not like you can't just push me off anyway. You're like super strong. Inhumanly strong even. Are you human? You're not human, you're my wolfman. I love you wolfman." He slurs out his last few words as he dozes back off. Derek reminds himself that he considers Stiles’s persistence to be a fine quality _most days_.

"Well Stiles, I will not force your grown ass into taking a shower. I, on the other hand, have no desire to feel your come," a blush blooms atop his ears as he whispers the word like filth, heard it enough times from Stiles's dirty mouth that he gets embarrassed like a pre-teen in sex ed every time he hears it outside of bed, "between my legs while I try to sleep, so I'm going to take care of that."

“Fine fine, you do that,” Stiles huffs. He braces his hands on either side of Derek’s head and shifts down, pulling out of Derek and collapsing to the side. Derek stays in his spot, stretching his legs as he accommodates the empty feeling where he was just filled. "I'll just take one in the morning before I drive back." Stiles yawns, stretching his own limbs before pulling the covers all the way to his shoulder, cold from the lack of warmth beneath him. "Just bring me a wet rag okay? You touched me with your dick hand, and I mean, I love you and all, but everyone has their limits."

Before Derek can retort with his signature salty bitch face, he hears something shatter and looks around to see Pussywillow perched up on the coffee table and a puddle spreading on the floor, along with many pieces of a broken drinking glass. “Can you tell me why I let you talk me into keeping these things?” He groans, kicking his foot around under the sheets to find his discarded briefs before rolling out of bed and padding his way over to the living room.

“Because they were cute homeless babies with no mommy, and they were both sick, and you seemed so concerned with getting them back to health that I thought at one point you were going to rip off your shirt and breastfeed them yourself.” Stiles flips the covers back over his shoulder and nestles himself further into the mattress, moaning at the never-not-surprising (as in ‘he sleeps on a memory foam pillowtop mattress that feels like a literal cloud, why is he so grouchy?’ surprising) softness beneath him, not yet ready to confront the frigid air. “Plus that other little creep is in a fucking wheelchair, Derek. I mean seriously, who the hell was gonna adopt him? And may I also remind you that you were the one who rescued them in the first place?”

It was in fact Derek who rescued them, found them huddled together in a box one morning while he was taking his trash out to the dumpster behind his apartment building. He caught another scent on them, human, but it wasn’t familiar, didn’t belong to any of the occupants in his building. Derek was fully prepared to chew out the person who abandoned two newborn kittens (he presumed based on their smell), leaving them in a cold alleyway without so much as a blanket, but one of the cats was yowling and he could tell that he or she was in pain, so he grabbed them both up in his leather jacket and drove them to Deaton’s clinic, leaching the pain from the one who had what Derek realized was a broken leg. Deaton informed him that they both had gotten hypothermia from being out in the cold without their mother, and that the broken leg was beyond repair, needing to be amputated, which had Derek storming outside in need of some air.

When he finally came back in, he took a seat in the lobby and waited. It was an hour before Deaton let Derek into the exam room, thanking him for sticking around and joking that he never thought Derek would be at the clinic for anything other than a werewolf related emergency, which had Derek relaxing his shoulders a little, relieving the tension and panic that built up over what exactly, he didn’t know. They were just stupid cats, why did he care? Then he saw the two of them wrapped up in blankets, huddled together like they were when he first found them, and his heart simultaneously swelled and broke in two. When Deaton told Derek that he’d take them off his hands and keep them until they could be brought to a proper shelter, Derek made his mind up and asked if he could take them home and nurse them to health himself. After thorough instructions and some essentials, including bottles and cat shampoo, Derek Hale became the proud - albeit hesitant and nervous - dad to a pair of kittens, who, Derek admitted to himself that night, were cute as fuck.

And if about a week later, while Stiles was over meeting the kittens for the first time (and selecting the most ridiculous names for them), Derek tracked down the asshole who should have gotten a lot more than a punch in the face and a kick in the nuts and an intimidating lecture which involved fangs - well that’s something no one else necessarily needs to know.

“You probably just knew they were a total dick magnet.” Stiles turns his head to look at Derek, making sure he can see the waggling eyebrows. Derek just furrows his own. “I’m honestly just happy you managed to keep them alive for - what is it now - a year? Considering you never have more than a stale box of cornflakes and a jar of Grey Poupon, that’s a pretty good accomplishment. I’m proud of you, Mr. Dad,” Stiles chuckles.

“Yeah yeah, ha ha, fuck you,” Derek chimes, bending down to clean up the mess.

The damage from the glass wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded, just a few large broken pieces that Derek cleans up with his hands (what’s a few cuts to a werewolf), helping the other cat off the table. He picks Stiles’s backpack up off the floor and shakes it for any other shards that he may not have caught, taking note of the weight as the water that pooled at the bottom of the bag flings and drips off. “Stiles, you didn’t have anything in here, did you?”

Stiles flips over and leans against the headboard so he can get a better view of the living room. “Nah, my laptop’s on the table. Wait, fuck- where’s my homework? Oh wait no, that’s on the sofa.” Derek spins around and recognizes his couch strewn with the typical mess of papers and textbooks whenever Stiles comes to visit from UC Berkeley. “Yeah, I think we’re good. Just some pencils and shit,” he concludes.

Derek’s unzipping the backpack before Stiles even finishes his statement. “Are you sure about that?” he asks, grabbing a handful of clothes and dropping them to the floor, a splat noise indicating how soaked they are.

“Damn it!” Stiles yells and pulls the comforter back over his head, groaning out his exasperation. “What the hell am I supposed to wear to bed? What am I supposed to wear tomorrow? I fucking got pizza sauce and beer on the shirt I had on earlier, ugh!”

Derek’s laughing as he stalks back over to the bed and crawls on top of Stiles, the covers serving as a barrier between them. Derek doesn’t have a problem with the cold, at least. He has to tug a little to get Stiles to release his clutch on the comforter, but Derek pulls it back and waits for Stiles to make eye contact. He looks at him from the corner of his eyes and Derek figures that’ll do. “Hey, you can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in.” That piques Stiles’s interest and he gives Derek his full attention. “After I shower - it’s what,” he looks over at the alarm clock next to his bed, “8:13 - yeah, so after I shower, we can go downstairs to Tracy’s place and ask to use her dryer, okay?” He kisses Stiles nose before hopping off the bed, making his way for the bathroom. Stiles just whines.

“What?”

Stiles whines again.

“Fine, _I’ll_ go down there myself. But if I come back with my face covered in her lipstick, just know I tried everything I could to keep her off of me,” Derek jokes. Tracy is actually a little… handsy. Derek can’t find it in his heart to downright reject her, she’s close to 40, recently (as recent as 3 years can be) widowed, always smells of anxiety and sadness, and she’s actually incredibly nice to Derek and his “little brother” Stiles. He’s never been able to correct her.

“And that’s a risk I’m willing to take if that means I get to sleeeeep,” Stiles moans, almost obscenely, as he digs his legs into the mattress.

Derek just smiles at him before disappearing around the corner of the loft. He turns on the water and waits a few minutes for it to warm up before shutting the door, leaving it cracked while he showers.

* * *

Finding enough post-coital energy to finally wake up and get ready for sleep, Stiles rolls out of bed and to his feet, not without his usual groaning and whining when he's tired. This is one of those times when he's grateful that Derek takes god damn forever in the shower because dozing off for a few minutes warrants softcore Derek Hale judgement and he's not here for that right now. He pads over to the other side of the room to fetch some pajamas from Derek’s lone-standing dresser.

It had taken a couple of years and one heartfelt chat about rebuilding a life for himself in Beacon Hills with pack and love, never a replacement for the family he once had but a new one he could love and cherish just the same, but Derek finally purchased proper furniture for his bedroom, tired of living out of the temporary convenience of a trunk. It was better, having something more permanent to keep him to this town, the one that caused him wounds so deep Derek was never entirely sure they would close, not until he allowed Stiles in to fix them, _fix him_. He couldn’t just pack up and leave, and he almost did give up on it all twice before, without being reminded of the life he built with Stiles and with their pack. It’s helped.

He sorts through the drawers looking for something to sleep in. The first drawer has the essential undergarments, tight briefs and undershirts and socks, plus a few pairs of fuzzy socks sitting near the top. A splash of color in the monotonous sea of gray, black and white, obviously recently washed. It makes Stiles's heart swell knowing that Derek actually puts the Christmas/birthday gift Melissa gave him last year to good use (very good use in fact, judging by the near holes in some of them). He snatches up a pair of boxer briefs he actually knows are his own and pulls them on, the air just a little too nippy down there for him to bear a second longer.

Stiles is now aware of how many henleys his boyfriend actually owns. So many henleys. Two drawers worth of henleys, in fact, with a few miscellaneous sweaters and t-shirts tossed into the mix. He’s never really looked through these drawers before, just skimmed for the first shirt on top when Derek would ask him to grab one, and his heavy studying doesn’t give him that many opportunities to see Derek in anything other than the same five or six shirts he favors the most. Although now that Stiles is examining them closely, he recognizes a few identical shirts, which makes sense, Stiles thinks, considering when times were especially rough in Beacon Hills, Derek would have to toss an average of four shirts a month from rips and tears and blood stains. It’s nice to know that back then, before they were together and Derek knew what it was like to have something good and meaningful in his life again, he valued something, even if it was as simple as his wardrobe.

As Stiles is rummaging through one of the drawers, he spots the beginnings of a pretty familiar design peeking out from the bottom of the pile. He pulls it out, and as he thought, Derek apparently owns an LA Dodgers shirt. Which is incredibly unsuspecting. And also… small? Derek must’ve put it in the dryer one too many times, Stiles thinks. He’s not even picturing Derek wearing this petite shirt, the stretch of it over his biceps and the way it would undeniably ride up his abdomen, probably coming up right below his navel, happy trail exposed and out in the open for Derek - or Stiles, because after all, he is an ambition young man - to just scratch at any time he wants. Nope, not picturing that at all. Instead, he contemplates putting it on, just to surprise Derek when he comes out from his shower, and ultimately concludes, _yes, Stiles Stilinski, man of rash decisions, that is a great fucking idea._ He pulls it on slowly, careful not to rip the seams, and it’s actually a pretty good fit for him, snug in all the right places but still long enough to reach the waistband of his boxers. Maybe he’ll just ask if he can have it since the likelihood of Derek reviving the crop top movement of 2014 is upsettingly slim.

The shower cuts off and a second later, Stiles can vaguely hear the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom, Derek likely brushing his teeth. He opens the bottom drawer and pulls out a pair of Derek’s beloved long johns to put on. Seriously, the man owns enough long johns that he could probably sponsor every snowboarder participating in the 2018 Winter Olympics.

Stiles begins sticking one leg through the pants before looking down and realizing he’s still wearing his boxers. _Should I take these off? Derek never wears briefs under his, maybe they’re supposed to be that way? Would it be weird if I didn’t have underwear on? I mean, I know Derek and I, like, bone and whatnot, but this is his shit._ “Derek,” Stiles calls out, hoping the man won’t still have his mouth occupied by his toothbrush. “Would it be weird if I put your thermal pants on just free balling it? Or is that like, too close even for us?” He begins pulling it back off of his foot, preparing himself for the response to go either way.

“No Stiles, it would not be weird if you wore them like that,” Derek replies from somewhere in the loft. Stiles isn’t entirely sure where. The miscellaneous holes in the walls fuck with his sound localization sometimes. Sometimes. The crumpling sound of the cat food bag catches Stiles’s attention and he turns around, spotting Derek squatted down next to the sofa where the cats’ food bowls are, filling them up for their nighttime feeding. “It would be great though if you wouldn’t say things like ‘free balling.’”

Stiles just shrugs before taking off his boxers, cupping Little Stiles to keep him warm while he bends over to grab the long johns and pull them on, getting a good feel of himself in them, and wow, Stiles can now understand why Derek loves them so much. They’re like seven paces better than sweatpants, and they make Stiles feel- dare he say _sexy_ , thin fabric clinging to his ass as the outline of his cock shows visible in the front panel. He might have to ask Derek if he can have a few pairs of these as well.

Derek picks up the small bell from next to the bowls and rings it, causing Stiles grins at the sight that never gets old. He’s the one who convinced Derek to get the bell in the first place because “do you see their smushed little faces, Derek? They’re probably snooty as fuck.” That wasn’t the most important reason, of course, but it still worked for them. It took a whole lot of hurdles to make the cats like Derek and not be scared of his wolf, so the bell was just a trick to show them that _canines can’t ring bells, humans ring bells. With their opposable thumbs_. Pussywillow hops off of Derek’s bed at the same time that Stiles hears the soft squeaking noise of Pussywagon’s wheelchair as he trots from the opposite side, probably lazing in his own bed while Derek showered.

“Where did you find that? How do - why do you have it on?” Stiles diverts his attention from his body and spots Derek inching closer to him, wearing an expression of both confusion and panic.

“You said it was cool if I wore them, right?” He snaps the waistband of the long johns to punctuate his question, yelping a small ‘ouch’ at the sting.

“The shirt! Why do you have on that shirt?” His posture is growing tense as he stands in front of Stiles.

“Dude, it’s pretty awesome that you have this. I found it in the back of your drawer with all the henleys. I honestly wouldn’t expect you to own something like this. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you show interest in the game.”

“Sorry, I just - can you take off the shirt? Please?” Derek pleads.

“Yeah, I mean I guess. Derek, it’s not that serious, alright? I thought it was cool, but I get it. You have your things, I have mine.” Stiles is looking at Derek and he’s starting to worry.

Derek’s voice drops and for the first time in awhile, he sounds small, helpless. He sounds _broken_. “It’s the shirt I was wearing the night of the fire,” he nearly whispers.

This is bad.

“Oh my - oh my god, Derek! I’m so sorry! Oh my god!” Stiles starts tugging off the shirt, his hands shaking as he tries to process this knowledge. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know. Shit, I’m so sorry. Here, I’m taking it off. See?” He’s still struggling with the shirt when he looks at Derek, takes in the state of him. Derek’s looking at the floor, unable to look anywhere else.

He finally gets the shirt off, and tucks it neatly, delicately, into the back of the drawer. "Derek, come here." Stiles grabs Derek's hand when he does move and leads him over to the bed, pulling the come stained towel off and tossing it into the hamper in the corner.

"I dont want to talk about this," Derek murmurs, even as he continues to take a seat on the bed.

Stiles lingers for a minute, making sure Derek will stay and not leave or shut himself off while Stiles turns his back. He quickly moves over to the dresser and grabs a thermal henley, and as he catches a glance of Derek sitting alone, it's like time slows down. This genuinely isn't the worst Stiles has ever seen Derek. He's watched Derek be betrayed by his own uncle, and to a lesser extent by Scott, kill one of his own betas and struggle with the notion that he was at fault, bid for his sister's life with a manipulative woman who he _let in_ , and relive the most traumatic part of his life twice.

But Derek's life was better now.

As if he could hear when Stiles's thoughts stop, Derek peers up at him, and Stiles wants to wipe that sorrowful look from his face. He takes a seat next to Derek on the bed, maneuvering their bodies so that they are both sitting criss-cross and close enough for Derek to feel comfort from Stiles's being there, but not pressing.

They just sit in silence for a few minutes, Derek fumbles with his thumbs like a child, and it reminds Stiles that in some ways, Derek still is. Not fundamentally, of course - Derek is a strong, responsible adult with semi-normal social interaction and people skills. But whenever he remembers that there was the fire when Derek was only 18, he can't help but feel a bit of pain at the knowledge that the man sitting beside him lost everything, including that last bit of youth in him that was buried in the ashes with the rest of his family.

"So..." Stiles whispers, trying subtly to break the silence and perhaps bring their vital conversation forth.

It's a couple more minutes before Derek says anything. "It's the only thing of them I have left. Their scent, I mean. I keep it close because it's comforting when I miss them."

And that makes sense to Stiles. It's along the lines of what he'd assumed. "And that's important because of your wolf side, right? It sates some yearning for your old pack, knowing that they're close even if they're actually not?"

Derek just nods.

"I understand that, I guess. I mean, obviously, I'm no werewolf, so there's none of that natural instinct for me, but I had a similar deal when my mother died," Stiles explains, rubbing at Derek's knee, tries to give him some comfort. "Her scent, it - it was still there in our house after she died. I slept in their bed with my dad for like a month after because it was strong there. Sometimes, if I got home before my dad was off of work, I would hide myself away in their room. It was nice, having a physical part of her left."

Stiles can feel Derek beginning to relax into him a little, and that's good. Knowing Derek for nearly 8 years, it became easy for Stiles to figure Derek out, learn the best way to communicate and understand him. He didn't verbalize his feelings very often, but he could speak through facial expressions and body language, especially to Stiles. He laces their fingers and Derek doesn't pull away or try to stop him, so Stiles feels at least a little accomplished.

"It became a crutch to me, though. I'd pretend she was still there with us, just at the store or at work. A couple of months after, my dad finally had a donation service come and take her stuff. I think he realized that it wasn't helping me to have that stuff, I couldn't move on with it there."

Derek jerks from Stiles's touch, and it leaves Stiles confused. "It's different, Stiles. It's different because I caused it - and yeah, I know that it's not my fault okay, I let go of that guilt a long time ago, but I'm still the reason that this is all that I have left of them. I keep it to have their scent close to me, yeah, but I also hold onto it as a reminder."

Stiles can't even care that he probably looks the victim of the world's most elaborate prank right now, he is _lost_. "A reminder of what?"

"That you were the first person I really found myself trusting," he whispers. His body begins to tense up again, like he's nervous of something. "I don't want anything to ever happen - something that would make you turn on me or hurt me like other people have. But if that happens, I can't let myself be fooled again. I think about this every time I see it."

That's like a punch in the gut to Stiles. He wants to be angry, but he can't. Stiles knows it's not his fault, knows he never failed to assure Derek that they were secure, the two of them, that he would protect that man with his entire being. But he can't blame Derek for it either. Derek will probably always have a permanent barrier around him as a means of surviving, and that's understandable. It still hurts Stiles to have in on what he's been thinking, what Derek has feared from their relationship. "Derek, I don't know what I need to do to prove to you that I would never hurt you, but I won't. If this - if _we_ aren't for the long-haul, then it's because of your choice to end it all, not mine. I love you, Scott loves you - my dad, Melissa, Chris - the entire pack, and we could never be anything less to you than we are now because you're just as important to us. We're not going anywhere, don't you understand that?"

Derek averts his gaze from Stiles but gives him a gentle nod. And maybe it's not absolute, Derek's trust, but they've got time - so much time - and he's going to make sure Derek knows he can knock down those walls completely. He pulls Derek in for a hug, but Derek wriggles out of it, head falling into Stiles's lap instead. Stiles just cards his fingers through Derek's hair, hopeful that maybe his action gives some comfort and conveys his honest intention with him. "You're gonna be alright. You'll be alright, I promise," Stiles repeats again and again, and the words lull Derek into sleep.

* * *

 

The door in front of them slides open and Derek unwinds their fingers, pushing Stiles one pace over to not give anything away to the woman standing in front of them. Stiles just glares at him before turning to the door and with an excessive smile.

“Tracy, hey! Sorry it’s so late, I was just wondering if we could...” Derek raises his arm and gestures at the laundry bag in his hand. This is a normal thing for Derek, coming down a few floors to use her washer and dryer when he doesn’t have the time to run to a laundromat. The first time it became an established thing, he was on his way to any laundromat still open at midnight, and he ran into her in the elevator. She frowned and shook her head at the sight, Derek wearing a frustrated expression, comforter held at arms’ distance from his person while reeking of cat puke, and she told him that there wasn’t a single place open in town at that hour. Just as he was ready to open his mouth and ask her to push the button for his floor, accepting defeat to two cats who were determined to raise hell, she suggested he use hers instead, no strings attached. Of course, Derek could never just take from her like that with no repayment, so he does do odd favors for her here and there (because their superintendent is the actual worst) - fixes a showerhead, squeaky door hinge, etc. It’s a symbiotic relationship that works.

She eyes them both, lingering a little while longer on Stiles this time. “Mi casa es su casa! Come on in!” She moves to the side, gesturing for them to enter. After they’re both inside the loft, she slides the door closed behind them. “We’ll be back in a second, Stiles. Make yourself at home.” Tracy winks at Stiles before grabbing at Derek’s arm and leading him to the laundry room.

Stiles takes a seat on the cognac leather loveseat and looks around the open room, noting the stark difference between her loft and Derek’s. He’s never been here before, always either out with his dad or Scott or sleeping when Derek is helping her with maintenance issues. He notices that the floorplan is pretty similar, only mirrored. And there’s no staircase. There’s also quite a bit more furniture here, lots of different colors, and light fixtures which warm up the entire space, which is no surprise because it’s Derek he’s comparing this to. Oh, and no massive hole in the wall. Stiles figures she probably has the patience to walk around the wall for her morning breakfast rather than through it.

It’s a nice place actually. Something he wants with Derek, hopefully, one day. Warm and cozy and personal. Permanent. They could probably do with a lot less of the knick-knacks. And the zebra print. But it’s a start, a foundation for a life and home they can build together. They’ve been together for over 3 years now, danced around each other for some time before they even acknowledged that there was something more between them than just tolerance concealed by a thin veil of harsh, snarky comments. At this point, Stiles can genuinely say there is no other human being - or preternatural creature, if he’s being technical - who will ever make him feel the same thrum under his skin from morning until night, the passion of being so enveloped in love, to have so much love to give to someone else.

He’s brought out from his train of thought by the clack of Tracy’s slippers permeating the main loft area, Derek’s soft shuffle barely audible but still present for Stiles to hear him in tow. Stiles sort of developed his own heightened senses - or honed, rather, since it wasn't a natural progression like Scott had - being around werewolves for so long, awareness of his surroundings grown into a skill, anything to avoid being the ‘fragile human’ burden he was to Scott and Derek many years ago.

Stiles waits for Derek to come into his view, not wanting to push Derek any further emotionally than he’s already felt tonight. Being overly concerned would just agitate Derek. He finally locks eyes with Derek, giving a weak smile that Derek returns as he approaches the couch and sits next to Stiles. Stiles watches him as he walks over, desperate to touch Derek, give him reassuring words and comfort as he sits there, but Derek still seems distant, even as they sit shoulder to shoulder on the sofa.

Tracy sidles up behind the couch and wraps her hands against Stiles’s shoulders, manicured nails digging into his flesh as she begins to massage his back. “So Stiles,” she purrs, and god, Stiles is starting to feel a little self-conscious, like raw steak being presented to a lion’s den, “what are you doing here tonight? Wanted to have a slumber party with your big bro?” Stiles can’t help but nod along to her question, not entirely present as the release of tension from his muscles lulls him into deep relaxation. “That’s so sweet, you know. My sister Lisa used to come stay with me at my dorm sometimes when I was at UCSC. She’s going through a divorce right now, actually. I think she’ll be here in a couple of weeks while she’s looking for a new place to live.”

“Well hopefully Stiles will come visit while she’s here so we can all meet. I’m sure she’s as lovely as you are,” Derek says, patting Stiles on the thigh which jolts him awake.

“Huh? Oh yeah, yeah. Sounds cool. Derek and I will have to do another one of these brotherly sleepovers soon,” Stiles responds, sitting up from his slouch to wake himself up. “And I’ll try to not fuck my brother next time. It makes things weird for everyone,” he whispers, only audible enough to the werewolf in the room. Derek huffs out a small laugh, even though his eyebrows are scrunched in exasperated adoration.

She slows and softens her hands from their massage, instead raking gentle circles against the top of Stiles’s back with her fingertips, when Stiles’s stomach makes a loud rumbling sound. “Wow, it sounds like someone’s hungry! Let me get some food in you!” Before Stiles can even reply, she’s already making her way to the kitchen. “Do you have anything specific you’d like? I can whip you up a sandwich or maybe - oh, you know what, I’ve got some leftover lasagna in the fri-”

Stiles shouts yes before she finishes that sentence, head nodding frantically as though she could see him through the wall separating the two rooms. Over the years, after being exposed to the preternatural world, Stiles has seen many things to which he can lend no explanation. How Tracy has created the most indulgent lasagna but still manages to make it healthy, full of lean protein and veggies, has got to be at least top five on that list. Maybe top three.

“Good boy. I know neither of you could ever resist my lasagna. I’ve got you hooked,” she says. “It’s only a matter of time before I get one of you to marry me.” She laughs at her own joke as Stiles gives Derek a playful worried look, not getting much in response. “Derek, would you like some too? I don’t even know why I’m asking. That’s really not up for question.”

For what it’s worth, Derek still replies. “I’d love some, thank you.”

Derek and Stiles sit on the couch, silence between them, only the gentle hum of the microwave and Tracy’s mediocre rendition of Puff Daddy’s I’ll Be Missing You. Stiles’s mind is scattered, a million different thoughts flowing through his brain, some good, some bad, and he remembers something, apparently quite a funny thought, judging by the hearty laughter that fills the room.

“What?” Derek perks up at the noise, curious to know what thought has wrapped it’s way into Stiles’s head, knowing it’ll amuse him as well. That’s one thing - one of the _many_ things - Derek loves about Stiles, his sense of humor. The ability for his personality to shine through in even the tensest situations sometimes. Stiles is the only person who can make Derek genuinely laugh. Sure, he laughs over Sunday morning breakfast at the sheriff’s stories of the amateur miscreants of Beacon Hills, or settled in front of the tv watching old episodes of Scrubs in his Netflix queue, but Stiles is able to touch Derek at his core, make him know that he deserves to enjoy life too, to have a good laugh and relax into the life he’s grown comfortable with. Even though Derek rolls his eyes at ninety percent of the jokes or funny remarks which come from Stiles’s mouth, he’s always able to crack a smile at knowing that the man before him is his.

“I’m just laughing because I was gonna ask if that shirt was vintage.” Stiles quiets down, mumbling his words over a yawn while he leans forward to stretch at his spot on the couch.

Derek’s eyebrows rise in silent question.

“You’re like really fucking old, dude,” Stiles gets out, then he starts laughing really obnoxiously and continues to laugh even after Derek knocks him off the sofa, throw pillows cushioning his short fall. “Oh god, I think you broke my tailbone!” He rubs his butt as he pushes himself off the floor, using the coffee table for leverage.

Derek pulls at Stiles’s waist until he’s got his arms wrapped around him, hugging his midsection. Stiles huddles awkwardly over Derek’s head so he can hug him too, and they stay like that for a moment before Derek slides his hand down and pinches Stiles’s injured ass cheek, causing him to yelp at the slight sting of pain that lingers.

Stiles undoes his arms from around Derek’s back and cups either side of his head, guiding it back until their eyes meet. “You’re good though, yeah?” Stiles asks, though it comes out more as a statement than it does a question because Stiles knows Derek will be fine, knows he’ll never give up on this man’s healing as long as he has a say on it. He wants Derek to acknowledge his own security. Derek hesitates for a second before giving a smile and a nod, and Stiles reads his expression, studies his eyes, knows he’s being honest. There’s a faint optimism there, hiding behind the mellow pain that has, over the last ten years, diminished gradually but never faded entirely. Stiles wants there to be no pain.

Derek wants that too.

They keep their embrace going, too distracted to hear the clank of plates against the dining table or the footsteps approaching them. “Now, it could just be because I’m old school, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen brothers in this kind of hug before.” She’s smirking knowingly at the two of them. _Oh_.

Of course she knows, Stiles’s thinks to himself. After it became known that most residents of Beacon Hills were like Danny, that they were pretty familiar with the less than human occupants and visitors of their quaint little town - though they keep to themselves and generally don’t know who has fangs or wings or the ability to manipulate someone’s mind, just that they exist and within close proximity probably - Stiles certainly should have known these people weren’t stupid. But this was a simple lie. Those are typically easy to conceal.

“I, uh - fuck, this is weird,” he splutters, “just know first off that we didn’t pretend to be anything to mess with you. It’s just, uhm - it’s just that this one here has a heart of like, actual fucking gold okay - like we could go down to one of those ‘We Buy Gold’ places right now and get bank of this guy, only not really, because gold isn’t actually worth much these days, but you get what I’m saying, right? But, you know, he didn’t know how to tell you. Because you were so nice to him, and he told me you started flirting with him and he felt so terrible leading you on but it just sort of got out of control, you know. Oh god, I’m so sorry, and I know Derek feels the same way even if he’s not saying shit right now - oh btw Derek, thanks for that.” Stiles looks down at Derek and he’s nearly in tears trying to fight back his laughter, which all comes tumbling out the second Stiles stops talking. Stiles just stands there, looking between Derek and Tracy, mouth wide open in confusion.

Tracy waits a moment for the room to calm down before she responds. “Stiles, honey, seriously, don’t worry about it. I was honestly wondering how long it’d take the two of you to crack. That’s why I hit on you boys so hard, hopefully to make you uncomfortable enough to spill the beans.” She just looks down at her fingernails, obviously amused by the way the situation played out. “Oh don’t worry though, you’re both forgiven. It gets pretty lonely down here when I’m not with my girlfriends, so of course I’d keep the two of you around. Especially with those darling matching pajamas.” They both look at each other and Stiles smiles first before Derek returns it with one just as affectionate. He grabs for Stiles’s hand and laces their fingers together. “Seriously though, I’ve been waiting months to finally get the chance to say this, but you make a very beautiful pair. I don’t just mean looks wise either, although, of course, that doesn’t hurt anyone, but I can see how well you two fit together. You’re both very lucky men. I see you two being together for a very long time.”

Derek pulls their linked fingers towards him and presses a gentle kiss to Stiles’s hand, eyes flitting over the man he loves. “I think I’m starting to see that too.”

Stiles gives him a big smile as he relaxes into his space. “So that means I can still have my lasagna, right?” He starts to rub at his tummy as Tracy grabs his hand, leading him to the dining room. Stiles throws a thumbs up over his shoulder back at Derek as they go.

Yeah, Derek can definitely see it.


End file.
